


Always On The Make

by theravenwrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theravenwrites/pseuds/theravenwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Professor Saito catches Cobb and Arthur stealing from his potions ingredients, he offers them a deal: find a way to make Robert Fischer happy and he won't take any house points. He'll even lift Cobb's International Floo ban. Cobb is pretty sure he knows exactly how to do it, only they'll need help. It's Arthur's last year at Hogwarts, and all he wants is to graduate with five NEWTS, but being Cobb's best friend means that he never gets what he wants, so Arthur must set aside his personal dislike for Eames and make sure they don't all wind up in St. Mungo's Janus Thickey Ward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always On The Make

Arthur feels no shame in turning to Cobb with a raised brow and an acerbic "I told you so." They're close like that. And anyway Cobb hardly seems to hear him, intent as he is upon stuffing his pockets with beetle eggs.  
"Pot, kettle," Cobb mutters. "Try putting things down your pants."

Arthur suppresses a sigh and puts the jar of frog's breath he's holding into his underwear. Merlin’s beard that's cold. Stupid debts to stupid Slytherin black market gangs.

The door to the storeroom opens and Professor Saito is framed in a shock of light that makes Arthur's eyes water. "Good evening boys," the Potionsmaster says in his most pleasant tone. "What a pleasant surprise seeing you here."

"Hello, sir," they chorus, not even bothering to not look like they haven't been caught red handed. This isn’t their first hippogriff rodeo.

Saito turns to a slight figure standing just behind him in the hallway. "Thank you for your recommendation that I check my supply of dried newts at this unusual hour, Nash. You may go."

Nash takes a half step forward, and even that motion is as greasy as his hair, clearly wanting to stay and watch them get chewed out. Arthur makes sure to catch his eye and mouth something suitably threatening.

"Nash," Saito says, and his tone is still light, but they’re all familiar with Saito’s silk glove over a steel fist demeanor and Nash doesn’t need a second warning. He’s gone.  
"My office, please," Saito says, standing aside to usher them outside.

They troop into his office next door. Arthur vaguely remembers being a first-year and so terrified upon his first conversation with Saito here that he was sure he was about to pee his pants. Now this room is familiar and maybe not cozy, but possessing a certain charm nonetheless. Saito seats himself at his suitably impressive desk and taps his fingertips together, considering.

Cobb and Arthur don't speak. They don't even need to look at each other to know how this is going to go. First, Saito will ask what they hoped to accomplish by breaking into his storeroom, then he'll confiscate the items they plundered while making sad-eyes specifically at Arthur, going on about "my own House, how very disappointed I am." Which makes it all the more surprising when he says, "I wonder if, in return for the favor of not mentioning this incident to anyone, you might be willing to do me a favor."

Arthur looks at Cobb, shaking his head minutely. Cobb seems interested and Arthur could cry. This is always how these things start, and they end with Arthur doing awful, awful detention with Filch. He doesn't think he can take much more of that; it's his last year here and he would kind of like to make it through without Filch eyeing his thin wrists and talking wistfully about how he has just the right size shackles.

"What kind of favor?" Cobb asks.

"Do you know Robert Fischer? He's a sixth-year in Slytherin."

Arthur knows Fischer, but not well. He doubts if anyone knows the quiet, unhappy boy well.

"I would like you to make him happy."

Arthur can't help but scoff out loud. Saito raises an eyebrow at him. "Well, I mean, that's hardly a feasible task, is it? Come on, Cobb, let's walk away from this and just accept the points."

"Making someone happy sounds like it's worth more than House Points. What else are you willing to offer?"

Saito’s smile is only visible to those who know how to look for it. He knows what Cobb wants. "If you succeed, I will intervene on your behalf with Headmistress McGonagall concerning your international Floo ban. If, however, you fail, I will double the points I would have taken."

Arthur is more than a little stunned. Saito is serious about this and when Cobb immediately agrees, he isn't surprised. Saito and Cobb both look at him. He sighs. There’s no way Cobb will pull this off without him. "Yeah, I guess."

"Excellent. I will, of course, be dropping in every now and then to see how you are progressing."

"Can we get outside help?" Cobb asks, and somehow Arthur knows he's already got the beginnings of a plan.

"I suppose, although please remain discreet."

Cobb turns to Arthur with a huge grin on his face, and practically drags the slighter boy out of the room. He starts talking a mile a minute before the door has even closed behind them, all about how he's finally going to see Mal again, no more stupid letters that he hates writing because "if you want to be together, you actually have to be together, you know? But don't worry, Arthur, because I've been thinking--" when, exactly, has this thinking been going on, Arthur wants to ask, "and remember when we were studying Occlumency?"

They wind up in the kitchens, their favorite place to go ever since they discovered it second year. Since Cobb is a Gryffindor and Arthur is a Slytherin, they don't have too many places they can hang out without people making annoyed comments. Plus the food is amazing, and prompt.

Arthur manages a quick "thank you," to the house elf who's already trying to disappear before he begins his counter-arguments to Cobb's enthusiasm.

"One: there is no way to conclusively accomplish making someone happy since emotions cannot be qualified." Arthur forestalls Cobb's comment with a raised hand. "Two: we don't know Fischer at all. Three: you've been shit at Occlumency ever since fifth year with the whole... you know..."

"That's why we need a team!' Cobb breaks in excitedly. He loves the idea of having a team, something that has blown up in their faces too many times to count.

"I told you I was never working with Nash again. Or his stupid gang. Did you not notice how he just double-crossed us for, what? The fiftieth time?"

Cobb waves a dismissive hand. "Not Nash. A whole new team. We need smart people. I'm going to ask Professor Miles about someone good with Arithmancy."

"Now?" Arthur asks. It's about nine o'clock.

Cobb, to his credit, barely falters. "All right, all right, first thing tomorrow. I'm going to go owl Mal right now and tell her the good news." He's up in a flash, but Arthur manages to stop him just in time to collect the pilfered goods that Saito never got back from them.

"And this time we're not having any more dealings with Cobol, okay?"

"Sure," Cobb calls as he runs out.

Arthur turns to his half-eaten shepherd's pie. "Cobb's going to get me expelled, isn't he? And then my mum will cry, and my life will be ruined forever." So, business as usual then.

***

Arthur doesn't see Cobb again until during lunch the next day, and he spends all his free time catching up on the work he's always putting off in order to conduct shenanigans with Cobb. No one bothers him, which is relaxing and might have something to do with the fact that he punched Nash in the face last night in the Slytherin common room¬¬ after handing over the goods. That and he kind of has a reputation as a hard-ass, which he is more than okay with. Or maybe it's because he's a known associate of the most insane (current) Gryffindor. 

But he's not lonely. He has his Quidditch mates and... Well, there’s Cobb, who is more like having a personal tropical storm than a best friend. He's never bored, though.

He's sitting by himself at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, reviewing his Transfiguration notes and picking at some cold chicken when he happens to realize he's sitting only a few spaces away from Fischer. It occurs to him that they often are alone together like this, and he feels bad for the kid. Fischer must feel Arthur's eyes on him because he looks up and gives an uncertain scowl. Arthur looks away and thinks that maybe they're doing a good thing. Everyone knows Fischer is miserable at Hogwarts.

"Miles suggested a fifth-year named Ariadne," Cobb says, swooping in next to Arthur so unexpectedly he would have had a heart attack if it weren’t completely beneath his dignity to act surprised. "Do you know anything about her?"

Arthur shrugs. "I've seen her around. Ravenclaw, right? She seems pretty smart."

"Yeah, yeah," Cobb says, stealing Arthur's drumstick and tearing into it in a way that is more than a little disturbing. "I'm calling a meeting of the team tonight at eight in the Room of Requirement."

"I have Quidditch practice until eight-thirty."

"Okay, so come late. I'll get Ariadne up to speed."

Quidditch practice goes all right. The weather's still nice, so being up on his broom in the evening breeze feels good rather than an exercise in stoicism. Arthur's seeker, so he mostly occupies himself with the Snitch while the rest of his team run drills, swooping in and out of their formations with ease. He doesn't have the world's fastest broom or anything, just an old, but reliable, Pasiv 3000, but his own natural grace more than makes up for any lack in cutting-edge broom technology. Although that still might not bring them to the Cup this year. Both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw are fielding good teams, the rumor mill has it, and unless the new Chasers can get up to snuff, and fast, they'll be out of the competition from the beginning.

The sky's just starting to turn vivid pink when Scorpius calls time and they all descend like so many birds coming in to roost. There's the usual pep talk and then they head off to the locker rooms. The Hufflepuff team is waiting to use the pitch as they come out, which, really.

"Arthur," says a familiar voice. He freezes, he can't help it, and it's just for a second, but it's enough to make it clear he's heard his name.

"Eames," he says, fighting to keep his voice level as the boy in question lopes over to him, grinning as if he were a labrador retriever and not a seventh-year student at the most prestigious wizarding academy in Britain.

"All right?" Eames asks, trying to sling an arm around Arthur's shoulders which he steps out of. "Haven't seen you around." This is true, and something Arthur's worked very hard to accomplish. They're taking completely different NEWTs, thank god, or that wouldn't have been possible at all. Just his luck that he would finally see Eames at the spot of his most complete humiliation.

"Yes, well, if you were taking any classes of value," Arthur says pointedly, but the insult rolls right off Eames, just like things always do.

"Care of Magical Creatures is a perfectly valuable class. Besides, we both know I don't really need NEWTs."

"Mm. Well, I can't really say it's been good to see you," Arthur says and walks off without looking back. He's late to meet Cobb and Ariadne as it is.

The Room of Requirement, when he gets there, has taken on the look of a deserted warehouse. Arthur worries for Cobb sometimes, he really does. Cobb and Ariadne are in the middle, perched awkwardly on lawn chairs, the kind you can stretch out on, for some reason.

"Mal says the Pont Neuf is terribly overrated, and I can't help but say I agree," Cobb is saying as Arthur sets his stuff down.

"But you've never actually been to Paris?" Ariadne asks, and the look she throws Arthur says he's left them alone for too long.  
"Oh, Arthur, good you're here," Cobb says. "I've just been telling Ariadne about the stakes of the job, but now I'll go over my plan."

Arthur nods and sits down on the third lawn chair the Room has provided, placing a piece of parchment on his knees in order to take notes. He's learned that if he doesn't take detailed notes of every half-cocked idea of Cobb's, he has no hope of keeping up, or, worse, they'll end up doing things double.

"Now, you know Mal and I were working on trying to use Occlumency in conjunction with Pensieves in order to create a waking dream that can be manipulated," Cobb starts.

"Wait, sorry," Ariadne interjects. Cobb squints at her, but she continues, undaunted. Arthur's estimation of her rises. "That's what got you in all that trouble during the last TriWizard Tournament? How?"

Arthur pretends to cough in order to disguise his laugh.

"That's hardly the point of this discussion," Cobb says grandly. "If you'll let me continue? Thank you. Now, these Waking Dreams are excellent for a variety of reasons, but what I was thinking here is that we could set up an ideal scenario for Fischer, one that will make him happy, and in so doing discover what it is that's making him unhappy in the real world."

"And why do you need me?"' Ariadne asks.

"I've divided up the work as such: Arthur will do the research on Fischer, and I will synthesize this information to create the ideal scenario while you set up the actual Pensieve."

"I've never done anything like that before," Ariadne protests, but Arthur notices she's got an interested glint in her eye.

"It's okay, we have plenty of time to take things slowly. Before we do anything else, Arthur and I will take turns training you in Occlumency. We'll meet here in the Room of Requirement for an hour every evening. Does that sound good?"

They all agree and separate for the night. Cobb to owl Mal, again, and Ariadne and Arthur to actually get some work done for his Potions class. Arthur feels like he's never had so much to do in his life; all he seems to do is spend time in the library trying to understand just the significance of the discovery of bezoars in Medieval potion making.

He's invited Ariadne to work with him at his favorite table by the windows, a gesture she appears to appreciate if her quick smile is anything to go by. They're about to enter the library when a pack of sweaty Hufflepuffs charge by, all shouting about something. It's the Quidditch team, back from their practice. Arthur lengthens his stride to get to the door all the faster and darts a furtive look over his shoulder to check on the position of Eames. Which might not actually be all that furtive.

Eames is, predictably, leading the group, a huge grin spread over his features. He's speaking to his teammates, all excited gestures. His jersey is covered in mud and his fringe is sweaty and flopping about on his forehead. It's not attractive. At all.

"Phwoar," Ariadne says when they get in. "Eames is really fit, isn't he?"

"No."

"Oh, sorry, do you not like him? I saw you looking..." Ariadne looks worried.

"I did no such thing. This way."

"So, um, can you tell me what exactly happened to Cobb? Why can’t he do the Occlumency himself? Does it have something to do with the Tournament?" Ariadne asks as they get settled, apparently eager to change the subject.

Arthur smiles. "Well, don't tell him I told you this, but he was helping Mal figure out the third task, completely against the rules, of course, and Cobb somehow cursed himself to be haunted by the Hogwarts Express whenever he goes into a Pensieve. And then they were caught by McGonagall."

"Working on the TriWizard Tournament clue?"

"No, in, um, flagrante delicto."'

Ariadne gasps and pinks. "How awful!"

"Yeah, she threw a bloody wobbler, so now Cobb can't floo internationally. But actually it was good they weren't actually working on the tournament stuff since then Mal would have gotten kicked out of the running, I would imagine."

"Wow. I had no idea Cobb was so..." Ariadne frowned, searching for the right word. "Daring, maybe? I dunno, he's just always been off on his own. Well, except for you."

"Yes, well," Arthur says, taking out his work.

***

Ariadne turns out to be a natural at Occlumency, which is a huge relief. They only need a couple practice sessions before she's knocking even Arthur back with the force of her thoughts.

"Your favorite fruit are plums!" she cries triumphantly, pointing at him.

"Very good," Arthur grunts, standing and brushing himself off. If he'd known Ariadne was going to be so explosive, he would have asked the Room for some pillows.

"Good, I think that’s enough for today," Cobb says, to Arthur’s relief. “I want to start working on the Pensieve.”

Cobb spreads the schematics he'd drawn up with Mal over the table. Ariadne stands at his side, reading intently. Half the notations are in french or ancient runes, neither of which Arthur reads very well. His naturally organized mind is good for experiencing the Waking Dreams themselves, but he leaves the whole set up to Cobb.

Instead, he settles at an old desk. Whenever he does work in the Room of Requirement he asks to use this one in particular. It's covered in several generations of graffiti. There's a whole conversation between Prongs and Padfoot about Severus's nose with interjections from Moony telling them off. There are declarations of love between Lily and James, some of which are accompanied by die, Potter, and there're several sets of tallies under the initials FW and GW.

Arthur really hasn't had time to work on this Fischer stuff at all in between Quidditch practice and the five NEWTS he’s taking. He would wonder how Cobb has the time to devote to it if he didn't know for a fact that Cobb never does any work. He says he prefers to let the information they're learning move through him naturally, whatever that means. The annoying thing is that he still gets near-perfect grades on essays he writes hours before they’re due and tests he shows up to having only had two hours of sleep the night before because he was up trying to communicate with fairies in the hedges.

He pulls out a fresh piece of parchment and sucks on the tip of his quill, a nasty habit, but he can't shake it, while he considers what to write. He writes the heading: Basic Information on Subject Robert Fischer, Jr.

Sixth-year  
Slytherin  
no friends  
quiet  
father owns huge company (?)  
pureblood

It's not nearly enough to go on, not even to start, and Arthur knows he's going to have to break into a couple offices to get the information he needs. It's nothing he hasn't done before, but it is time-consuming and he doubts that if he gets caught Saito would be very interested in bailing him out. He sighs and gets to his feet.

"I'm going to do some recon," he tells Cobb and Ariadne, who pay no attention to him. 

The first office he hits is Filch's, because the man is insane about keeping records, even on students he hasn't caught doing anything. Yet. The yet is probably the clue to Filch's character. His office is also the easiest to get into since the poor man is a Squib and has to rely on a series of deadbolts to keep out inquisitive students while he's on rounds, which he does predictably every evening during this time.

Arthur taught himself to break locks as a child before he even knew about magic and he still finds a task easier to accomplish manually than magically. He pulls his favorite lock pick out of his bag and gets to work, fiddling the thing gently. He's picked Filch's locks so often that he knows exactly how to get each one open so that it's only the work of moments before he's inside the seriously distressing office.

The stone walls are decorated with hanging manacles and chains and every flat surface is covered with scraps of paper. Arthur heads straight for the large filing cabinet in the corner and pulls out the top drawer, thumbing through the thick folders until he gets to Fisher, Robert. The file isn't slim, but it's not nearly as thick as his own. He debates with himself for a moment before stuffing it in his bag; it will make for some good bedtime reading, and it's highly doubtful that Filch will even notice it missing. If he does, he'd never suspect Arthur.

Once in bed with the curtains pulled tightly shut, in order to gain a little privacy but also to shut out the irritating din of his roommates playing exploding snap on Charles Nott's bed, Arthur settles in and begins to read. It's hard going, being full of Filch sentences, but it is a thorough examination of Fischer from his first day at Hogwarts. A typical entry goes like this:

_Saw the Fisher boy loytering in the Great Hall after brekfast. Threttened him with Intent to Harm if he didn't leg it. Told me he was looking for a pinwheel._

Filch's report isn't too useful in a technical sense, but it does give Arthur a better idea of a lonely kid who gets picked on by his peers. Arthur feels a twist of guilt in his stomach. Fischer is probably in his room just two doors down, getting ready for bed without any friendly chatter. Arthur knows he never took part in hiding Fischer's pinwheel, which seems like a favorite game of the other six-formers, but he never took any notice of the torment, either.

Arthur slides the file into his trunk at the foot of his bed and goes to bed, saying a goodnight to his cheerful dorm mates. They respond distractedly, but friendly enough. For some reason that just makes Arthur feel worse.

At breakfast the next morning he can’t help but notice he’s once again sitting close to Fischer. The slight boy with a shaggy haircut was picking at his oatmeal, not looking up at all. His collar and tie were a little skewed, and as Arthur watched he reached up with slim fingers to tug everything straight until it looked like he was choking. Arthur had frowned and wished he knew how to approach the boy, but the only thing he could think to say, that he really ought to use a half-Windsor instead of a full, didn't seem conducive to friendship in the least.

He goes straight to Saito’s office, which is empty. Arthur's poised to search through the neat desk when he realizes it would probably be the best thing to wait for the Potionsmaster. He is in his employ, after all. He turns on the light and reflexively makes two cups of tea from the small kettle and set of china Saito keeps in a cabinet next to his desk. Almost every time Arthur's been in here, and it's been a lot, although not always for disciplinary measures, Saito has offered him tea until he started asking Arthur to make it for the two of them.

Saito smiles when he eventually comes in and Arthur greets him with a "Good morning, sir," and a steaming cup.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Saito asks, settling himself into his dragonleather chair. It's absolutely ridiculously expensive, and Arthur can't wait until he makes enough himself to own one just like it. 

"It's about Fischer. I was just wondering if you had any information on him you wouldn't mind sharing with me."

"I thought you might ask something like this, so I have taken the time to prepare just such a document." Saito opens one of his desk drawers and takes out a slim folder. Arthur takes it gratefully, knowing that it will be concise but thorough.

He doesn't get a chance to go through it until lunch, since talking with Saito nearly made him late for double Charms. At lunch he feels too weird reading about a kid he's sitting next to, so he grabs a roll and some cold cuts and goes outside. The day is sunny and bright, the chill of mid-October banished for the afternoon.

There are a couple good trees for sitting against and reading, and Arthur settles into the one next to the Herbology greenhouses that has the smoothest trunk. The folder is good, detailing Fischer's father's company, Fischer-Morrow and where Fischer grew up (shuttling between Dorset and Australia, strangely enough), but doesn't contain anything overly personal. He says as much to Cobb during the nightly meeting.

"I know," Cobb says, massaging his temples. He looks exhausted. "And we're getting stuck on the Pensieve front as well."

"The magic needs a much better hand at potion making than either of us," Ariadne says. "Maybe I could do it, if you wanted to wait until I had got through my NEWTs."

Cobb looks straight at Arthur, and Arthur knows what's coming even before the words are out of his mouth. "I'm going to talk to Eames."

"There are plenty of other--" Arthur tries to think of the right term to describe Eames. Scallywag, while appropriate, makes him feel like his Great-Grandmother.

"He knows people," Cobb points out. "And this will kill two nargles with one hex. He can be our contact with Fischer and I bet you dollars to donuts he knows a good Potions student."

Arthur grits his teeth, but he knows Cobb is right. Ariadne, predictably, has noticed this exchange and darts him an inquisitive look. He knows what that means and tries to leave the Room of Requirement before she can pin him with questions, but he doesn't quite make it.

"Why don't you like Eames?" she asks. "I know what I saw when he showed up in front of the library."

Arthur sighs heavily through his nose. How to explain? "Eames is... everything I'm not. And he knows it. We're just diametrically opposed, I guess."

Ariadne frowns, not convinced. "But you don't have a personal history?"

"No? I mean, no. We've known each other since first-year, but we've never been more than acquaintances."

"I see," says Ariadne, and Arthur hastily excuses himself before she can call him on his shite lie.

It’s true enough that they have known each other since first-year. They met on the train, in fact. Well, the three of them, Arthur, Cobb and Eames, had met on the train. Arthur remembers like it was today: going through the brick wall all on his own when he'd only ever been to London a handful of times and always within sight of his mother. 

But as a muggle she couldn't follow him there. The smoke from the Hogwarts Express was everywhere, making the milling witches and wizards looming figures, with animal calls and children’s shrieks rending the air. Arthur was terrified, and with sweaty palms slowly edged his trolley through the crowd to the first train doors he could reach.

There was a young boy with a shock of blond hair standing in front of the door Arthur came to. He gave Arthur a serious look and said, "You're waiting for a train."

"Pardon?”

"A train that will take you far away. You don't know where this train will take you, but it doesn't matter. Tell me why."

"Is this... a test?" Arthur really wished this boy would just let him on the train and be done with it.

"No," the boy sighed. "It's a riddle. I'm Cobb, by the way," and he stuck his hand out. Arthur took it gingerly; it was a little sticky, as he'd thought. The train whistle went.

"Arthur. Shouldn't we get on?" he asked, gesturing awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Cobb said, but resolutely remained staring into the smoke.

Arthur began trying to heave his trunk up the steps. It was really far too heavy for a slight boy of eleven to lift.

“I’ve got that, son,” a man said, reaching around him to easily lift the thing onto the train. Arthur turned, surprised and embarrassed, to see a well-dressed Wizarding man, waiting behind him with his wife and son.

“Thank you, sir,” Arthur said and clambered on after his luggage before he could engage in any more awkwardness.

The father brought his son’s trunk onto the train as well and Arthur was still in earshot as they said fond goodbyes. Rather than wait for the son to board, as he looked to also be a first year, Arthur set off down the aisle in search of an empty compartment.

“Oi, wait up!” called two voices, and Arthur turned to see both Cobb and the other boy following him. They were both blond and stocky, but it was there any similarities ended.

“Er,” said Arthur, watching them bear down on him.

“I’m Eames,” said the newcomer in a terribly posh voice, sticking out a hand to shake. Arthur couldn’t help but notice that his at least was warm and dry.

“Arthur.”

“Brilliant, let’s go find a place to sit, shall we?” Eames asked, chivvying Arthur up the aisle. Arthur had the feeling it was going to be a long ride.  
It was, but in the end Arthur didn’t mind. Once they found out he was muggleborn, instead of ridiculing him as Arthur had feared, Cobb and Eames took it upon themselves to tell Arthur the wildest stories of the Wizarding world they could think of. Eames won by dint of having actually met Harry Potter, one of the few great Wizards Arthur knew of. 

“Yeah, but he’s a bit boring, don’t you think?” Eames said, and somehow didn’t sound condescending, merely earnest.

“If you say so,” Arthur said, not sure he believed such a thing.

“Aren’t his kids still at Hogwarts?” Cobb asked, looking around as if they could be listening in at that very moment.

“The youngest is, I think,” Eames shrugged, “but I doubt any first years would be seeing them. Anyway, which House do you reckon you’ll get into?”

“Gryffindor,” Cobb answered promptly. “Both my parents were.”

“Eh, my dad was Gryffindor, but my mum was Slytherin. They couldn’t care less and neither could I. What about you, Arthur?”  
Once Arthur had been brought up to speed on just what the Houses were in the first place, he considered and said, “Maybe Ravenclaw.”  
Of course, they were all due to be split up but somehow, and this amazed Arthur, they managed to stay friends of sorts, meeting in the evenings and sitting together when they could during class. But then during sixth year they’d begun to drift apart, as childhood friends naturally do. Cobb had fallen in love, and Arthur had… Well, he was very busy. It was his last year, after all.

***

Arthur isn’t looking forward to going to the Room of Requirement this evening. For one thing, he has practice again, meaning that since he’ll be rushing and won’t have time to shower, he’ll be arriving not only late but smelling like a dirty gym sock. When he does arrive it’s to see Cobb, Ariadne and Eames already sitting in a semi-circle of lawn chairs with another boy Arthur doesn’t recognize.

“Arthur,” Eames drawls, giving him an unmistakable once-over. Arthur squares his shoulders. “So good of you to join us.”

“Sit down,” Cobb says, waving a hand. “I’ve just been telling Eames and Yusuf what we’re doing.”

There isn’t another lawn chair. Arthur could kill Cobb for not thinking ahead. Predictably, Eames scoots so that he’s scrunched up on one half of his chair, and he pats the end invitingly. Arthur perches next to Eames’s feet, his bad mood intensifying.

“Arthur, this is Yusuf,” Eames says, gesturing to newcomer. “Yusuf is going to help with the potions. He’s a whiz with that sort of thing.”  
“Nice to meet you,” Yusuf says, smiling briefly. Arthur nods in response.

“Now, Eames, what we really need is for you to get close to Fischer and help Arthur figure out what, exactly, will make him happy,” says Cobb.  
“No worries,” replies Eames, smirking again. “I’m happy to help Arthur any day.”

Arthur tells himself he’s still flushed from practice and not the way Eames’s voice is practically dripping with innuendo. He wishes Ariadne wasn’t watching their every interaction like a hawk; it’s making him even more on edge.

Cobb goes over a few more details, then Ariadne starts getting technical with Yusuf about what, exactly, they need to start brewing. Predictably, making a Pensieve is an incredibly complicated procedure, one which Arthur thinks he could understand if given a reliable textbook and several hours alone in a quiet space, but which he doesn’t bother trying to follow at the moment.

“What say you and I meet up with Fischer some time tomorrow?” Eames asks, nudging Arthur in the back with the toe of his shoe. 

Arthur shifts away until he’s literally about to fall off the lawn chair. “No thanks. I’d prefer not to have to interact with him.”

“Why not? Afraid he’ll ruin your reputation as a block of marble?” Eames asks, and from anyone else his question would be teasing, but Arthur doesn’t think he’s imaging the glint in Eames’s eye. 

Arthur decides to answer truthfully. “I’m not very good at interacting with people. Chat him up if you like, just give me the information you get so I can synthesize it with what I have already. I’ll be pursuing a few other leads I have.” Arthur stands to go. “Good night, everyone.” 

Cobb says a distracted goodbye, and then turns back to his conversation with Ariadne and Yusuf. Arthur can feel Eames’s gaze on his back the entire time it takes him to walk to the door.

He's always done his best work on his own. He was the student who did all the work on the group projects not just because his partners (even if they were Cobb) were total slackers but out of an actual preference for solitary work. Because of this, he goes straight to the library rather than the Slytherin dorms to continue gathering information about Fischer.

If Fischer's father owns a large company, it will certainly have been recorded in the Daily Prophet, if not textbooks on Wizarding business. Over the years, Arthur has become a master of Madame Pince's organizational system. He sets up shop at his usual table and soon accrues a small mountain of books and a separate pile of dusty old Prophets. He feels the satisfaction of a good haul and sets down to work with real curiosity.

Arthur hadn't immediately recognized the name Fischer-Morrow, and he soon learns why. The company is one of those giant conglomerates who work behind the brand names of smaller divisions in a variety of markets. Fischer-Morrow owns a broom manufacturing company, a flying rug company, one of the major branches of the Floo Network dealing with international travel specifically, as well as a plant for the manufacturing of Floo Powder. 

It takes Arthur hours to piece together even that much information and he can only guess at half of it. All he knows for sure is that there is a lot more to Fischer-Morrow than he has yet uncovered. By this time, it's almost after hours and Arthur is tired. He gathers together a smaller pile of information more focused on the character of Fischer Senior, as well as the history of the family and finally goes to the dungeons.

Madam Pince closes the library doors behind him with an irritated rattle.

***

Having worked late into the night on finishing a Transfiguration essay, Arthur drags himself through the first half of the day. By lunchtime, when he's turned in the parchment and there's nothing more he can do about it, he allows himself to collapse on the bench in the Great Hall. This time he makes sure to sit near Fischer, although not directly so. As always, Fischer is picking at his food with his head down.

Arthur considers getting out some reading to work on, but all he really wants to do is lay his head down next to his plate and take a catnap. This would be, of course, the moment Eames chooses to slide into the spot between himself and Fischer.

"Good afternoon," Eames says with exaggerated solicitation.

"Hardly," Arthur says, glaring.

Eames turns wide eyes on Arthur. "I'm sorry, was I talking to you?" Eames turns his back to Arthur and repeats his salutation directly to Fischer. "Good afternoon."

Arthur can just see Fischer gaping like a fish around the rather magnificent breadth of Eames's shoulder. "Hello," the poor boy finally manages to say, and his voice is a pleasant tenor, no hint of stutter or any other nervousness like Arthur had assumed would be characteristic of him.

"I'm Eames."

"Robert Fischer. It's nice to meet you."

"Ah, but we met a long time ago, at a Holiday party your parents gave when we were boys."

"Really?" Fischer asks.

"I'm not surprised you don't remember. My mother had threatened to take away my toy broom so I was unusually well-behaved."

Fischer actually smiles, even if it's only a little one. "I can only imagine such a threat only worked the once."

Eames laughs, delighted. "How right you are! I'm afraid I rather had my mother wrapped around my little finger from a young age. Don't tell me you didn't as well."

"I don't remember, really," Fischer says, his whole countenance shutting down. He moves to return to his food, but Eames stays him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "She died my second year."

"I know. I'm sorry I never came and talked to you when I heard. I'm afraid I was a completely self-absorbed berk."

"It's fine. It doesn't matter."

"But it does," Eames says, and there's real pathos in his voice. "My mum died the next year and I know how much it means to have someone tell you they care."

Arthur can't look at the two of them anymore. He feels like he shouldn't witness what is becoming a very personal conversation. He'd known that Fischer's mother had died, it'd been in one of the press releases he'd skimmed the day before in the library, but he had barely glanced at it.

He steals a glance out of the corner of his eye at Fischer and Eames. Fischer is still looking down at his plate, but now it's to hide (not quite successfully) the fact that he's tearing up. He nods and says, "Thanks.”

"I need to go by the library before class," Fischer says once he has himself under control.

Eames's pat on the back rattles the smaller boys entire frame. "All right. Be seeing you."

"Yes. Um," Fischer says, standing next to the table looking embarrassed but pleased. "Thanks."

Eames turns back to Arthur with a pleased grin on his face, but the second he notices Arthur's expression of controlled misery, he turns serious.

"What's the matter, Arthur?" Eames asks.

Arthur debates for a moment brushing Eames off and leaving himself, but Eames will just follow and ferret the truth out of him eventually. They really have known each other for too long.

"I knew that his mum was dead and it didn't even occur to me to think it was important," Arthur bites out, ashamed of himself. "But you've never actually met before, have you?"

"No, I made up that dinner party. What does that matter, though?"

"Well, that's just it, isn't!" Arthur exclaims. "You understand how people work, and you use it to manipulate them! I can’t even do that.”

Eames looks shocked. "I think you’re forgetting who’s the Slytherin here. I may bend the truth a little but not with malicious intent. And anyway, Arthur, you do know you were there for me when my mum died, right? You can't have forgotten that."

"No, but--"

"You try, Arthur, and that's more than enough. I may be good at people, but that's simply a skill like your skill for research. What's important is that you try."

Arthur shakes his head, still angry.

"Why else would you be so upset now? I think you have this idea of yourself like your mother's computrice--"

"Computer," Arthur corrects without thinking.

"Yes, compruter," Eames says, "but that's not true at all."

Arthur sighs and rubs at his face. 

He looks over at Eames, who is smiling earnestly at him. 

"Thanks." He tries out a smile in return.

"So I'll see you at dinner," Eames says, grabbing a roll off Arthur's plate and jumping to his feet. "I think this friendship has real possibilities. And if you could try talking to Fischer outside of meals, I expect that would go well."

"You're going to get in trouble if you keep sitting at the wrong table," Arthur points out.

"Nah, McGonagall loves me," Eames says, flashing a thumbs up at the High Table where, sure enough, the Headmistress is watching them like a hawk.

And somehow things continue in this vein for the rest of the fall term. Eames continues to eat nearly all his meals with Arthur and Fischer, making rambling conversation to fill in the halting silences cast by the other two. More often than not Cobb joins them and occasionally Ariadne and Yusuf, too. For Arthur it’s somewhat surreal, the three of them talking, even laughing, again. He wonders if it’s as weird for the other two, although it’s poor odds that Cobb even remembers that there ever was a rift.

Arthur keeps an eye out during these exchanges, and so what if he's paranoid, it pays off when he catches Saito murmuring something to McGonagall and her possibly-maybe-smiling in response. He returns his gaze to Eames, who is telling some complicated story involving a garden gnome and his mother's best china. 

In the evenings, they all meet up. The other three, Cobb, Ariadne and Yusuf, are still working out the kinks of the Pensieve formula. They still haven't been able to test it, but Arthur knows that when they are ready to, he'll be on the front lines once more, having his strength in Occlumency tested. For now, he and Eames compare notes on Fischer and his family.

"Clearly his relationship with his father is at the heart of his problems," Arthur says, staring down at the rolls of parchment he's got spread out over his knees. "His father wants him to take over the family business and has been molding him for that practically his entire life. Besides, the man was almost definitely a Death Eater, I can't imagine that being easy to live with."

"True. But I think there's something more immediate at work. Something at Hogwarts," Eames muses, idly tapping at his face with his quill. He's getting ink all over his face, and Arthur hasn't decided yet whether to tell him or not.

"What? That he hasn't any friends?" he asks.

"But is that a symptom or the cause? He is a lovely person, really, so why hasn't he got friends?"

"He hardly talks," Arthur points out.

"That can't be a disqualification from friendship," Eames disagrees. "Look at you, you're like a mime most of the time and you've still us."

Arthur looks up, knowing that his mouth is hanging open. He doesn't know what to say. Are they friends again?

Eames quirks his lips in response to Arthur's expression. He shifts his own reams of notes off his lap and stands. "I'm for bed. You'd better rest up for tomorrow." With a wink he's gone, sauntering out of the room.

Arthur is glad that he never told Eames about the ink all over his face. No one should be a complete Adonis.

But they do have a big day tomorrow. It's Slytherin’s third Quidditch match of the season, and the last before the winter holidays: Slytherin versus Hufflepuff. In years past Arthur wouldn't have been worried about this at all, but what with the ridiculous practice schedules the Hufflepuff team has been implementing, as if they think they might have a chance, he's a little concerned. It’s certainly nothing to do with the effect Eames in his Quidditch jersey has on Arthur’s powers of concentration.

He goes to down to the Slytherin dungeons himself soon after. He says a casual hello to Fischer, whom he passes going from the common room to the dormitory, all part of his attempt to be friendly. He’s taking baby steps but it’s progress. Fischer glances up and nods, but he looks worried. This is when Nash greases his way onto the scene.

"Hallo, Arthur. Fischer," Nash says.

Arthur merely glares, attempting to step past.

"I was just talking to Fischer here the other day about maybe doing some business with Cobol. What do you think? Want in?"

Arthur snarls. "I wouldn't have anything to do with you lot if Merlin himself asked me. Now bugger off before I hex you into next week."

Nash does leave, but Arthur doesn't like the look he slides his way. It's way too calculating for someone so phenomenally stupid as Nash to be attempting. Arthur sighs and looks over at Fischer, who is doing his best to blend into the wall.

"If you want my advice, you won't work with Nash and his cronies."

Fischer shakes his head. "I never."

***

Once in bed, Arthur forces himself not to worry about Nash. What could the slime ball really do, anyway? Cobol is a small-minded gang of pureblooded Slytherins with no real power, only that of bullying. They do have some connections because of their parents, that being the only reason Cobb had ever gotten Arthur and himself indebted to the gang. He'd thought to ask them for help in getting around his ban on international travel, but even though they hadn't been able to come up with anything practical, they'd still demanded payment for labor costs in potions ingredients.

But not thinking about Nash leaves him to dwell on the upcoming Quidditch match. It's funny, he reflects, and he does have enough cognitive distance to recognize this, that he's so worked up about this one game when he's never been overly obsessed with the sport. He's naturally competitive, of course, so in third year when Eames announced he was going to try out for the Hufflepuff team, Arthur had immediately signed up for Slytherin try-outs. It'd helped that he'd learnt quickly from the flying lessons the school offered and was getting speculative comments about his Seeker-appropriate build from some of the older students. Including, once, from Scorpius Malfoy, already a star of the team.

But Quidditch was never more than a passing interest for him. He showed up on time and was grateful that at practices and games he was largely on his own in the air, free to enjoy the experience of flying. And now he has all these stupid emotions about the game and what will it matter who wins and who loses. If he wins will he feel like he's beat Eames, personally? He thinks he might. But will that mean he’s won the weird game of friendship they seem to be engaging in again?

He's still so wrapped up in his thoughts the next day that his teammates keep checking on him in a most un-Slytherin fashion. "It's only Hufflepuff," is something he hears regularly throughout the day. Eames waves at him cheerily from the Hufflepuff table during meals where he's sitting with his own team. Arthur downs the rest of his pumpkin juice like it's Ogden's Old Firewhisky rather than return the gesture.

The hour of the match arrives, as it must. As he’s changing into his gear in the locker rooms, Scorpius appears at his side, frowning somewhat. It makes his widow’s peak, always severe, even more ridiculous, Arthur thinks, rather meanly.

“Arthur,” Scorpius says. “Are you quite well?”

“Perfectly fine,” Arthur replies. Scorpius seems satisfied with the strength of Arthur’s own scowl and so he goes away.

After Madam Hooch blows the whistle and Arthur is airborne, the familiarity of the cold wind and his eagle-eye view of the pitch return a sense of normality and calm to Arthur. He chides himself for getting so worked up over what turns out to be largely routine. Slytherin has won its first two matches against Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, why should they not beat Hufflepuff? 

He barely sees Eames, a beater, the entire game. Although he does hear Eames shouting enthusiastically to the rest of his team. Two hours in, and with Slytherin forty points up, Arthur spies the Snitch hovering behind a tiny Ravenclaw first-year’s hat and swoops in for the kill. Afterwards, in the locker room, his teammates tease him about his nerves and he mutters something about a bad prawn at dinner the night before.

He’s a little nervous to see Eames, who is lying in wait for him outside, but Eames merely slings an arm around his shoulders and congratulates him on a good catch. Eames doesn’t have a truly competitive bone in his body. Arthur allows the contact for five whole minutes before stepping out of Eames’s grasp and they go in to dinner. It’s weirdly normal. 

That night they have their last meeting before break. Arthur leans back in his lawn chair, tired after sleeping so poorly the night before. Eames is sitting at his feet, playing with something he’s holding cupped in his hands. Arthur can’t see what it is around the curve of Eames’s shoulders and it’s a testament to how tired he is that he lets himself stare at all instead of feigning disinterest.

“What is the most resilient parasite?” Cobb is asking. Luckily he answers his own question (it’s an idea) because for once Eames is not the only one not paying attention.

Cobb is giving speech about the importance of their groundbreaking work and while Arthur knows that Cobb is right, they are working on some very serious magic in this room, it’s hard to take Cobb seriously, especially when he pauses and squints to himself like Eames reading the Quibbler. Rather than taking his usual meticulous notes, Arthur exchanges a long-suffering glance with Ariadne. 

“…The seed that we plant in Fischer’s mind will change everything. So we can’t let the winter hols disrupt our work…”

After handing out their assignments on actual slips of parchment, Cobb dismisses the team. Arthur takes his, in disbelief that Cobb has bothered to write down 'find out what’s making Fischer sad, as if that hasn’t been Arthur’s job these past four months. He’s about to leave when Eames stops him by the door. He’s smirking, never a good sign, and looking over Arthur’s head and back at Arthur in an exaggerated fashion.

Frowning, Arthur looks up and curses himself for his naiveté. He should have known there was no way he and Eames could be friends again. Eames will always know how he feels and find a way to mock him for it. He’s very aware of Ariadne and Yusuf standing nearby, huge smiles spread across their faces.

“Just a bit of Christmas cheer, love,” Eames says, grin faltering in the face of Arthur’s anger. “Give us a kiss.”

“Eames, I am impressed. I didn’t think you could be any more of an, of a complete _arse,_ but you’ve managed it.”

“Your condescension, as always, is appreciated, Arthur.”

Eames shoulders past Arthur and out into the corridor. He shouts over his shoulder, “Happy Christmas, you blast-ended Skrewt!”

“Go jump in the lake!” Arthur says, setting off in the opposite direction, even though this will mean that he has to take the long route back down to the dungeons. 

Eames, who has a very strong self-preservation streak, doesn’t make an appearance in the train carriage Arthur shares with Cobb on the ride back to London. Naturally, then, Arthur spends the entire time thinking of Eames, ignoring Cobb rhapsodizing about Mal in the seat opposite.

**Author's Note:**

> Found this sitting in my folder and thought, why the hell not? I'm not sure if anyone is in this fandom anymore but I enjoyed dusting this off. Unbeta-ed, so apologies for any excruciating errors. The second half is currently being written.


End file.
